A collection of reflections on the interaction of ‘angels’
with humans and their place in our lives, as perceived by myself and others.
Contains much original text - both prose and poetry - supplemented by
quotations from a wide range of outside sources. Illustrated with a number
of my original drawings. (298pp text + 39 colour and B & W illustrations)

AUTHOR’S NOTE
Angels, messengers, in many forms; those whispering voices in poetry,
writing, even painting and music. Messages when we are ready to hear them.
We are all angels when we can find our ‘voice’ in our own
lives. Please listen before it is too late; you may hear that ‘sound
which cannot be heard’, the sound of life.

This is my personal selection from loved writers, poets and other people – of ‘angel
voices’ – some of which echo my own thoughts and writing,
and which have helped me over the years when I most needed them. Sources
are acknowledged following each piece of writing.

Interspersed with these are my own contemplations on this interesting,
irritating, magnificent thing called life.

Perhaps, and hopefully, some part of these thoughts may instil in you
a spark of change.

You can make your own collection. It will continue to grow throughout
your life, as you grow and hear different angel voices. Just listen.

The messages are everywhere for us; it needs only for us to realise
that and open ourselves to them.

Some Sample Extracts

Dewy morn –
these saucepans
are beautiful.

Japanese Haiku poem by Buson,
From The Penguin Book of Zen Poetry,
Published by Penguin Books, 1987.

You will only have ecstatic moments
if you allow yourself to be open enough,

allow time to find yourself,
be yourself,

in all the majesty
that you are.

One who knows distances
out to the outermost star
is astonished when he discovers
the magnificent space in your hearts.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Our eyes were meant to gaze
into the distance,
And wonder, at the wonder
of it all.

The mind, altering, alters all.

William Blake

As I sit here each night, outside, in the cool and gathering dusk,
the moon is company. The sliver of silver glimpsed, disappearing around
the
side of the mountain,
is now in front of my view – it is swollen and voluptuous, growing into
its fullness. The light will be welcome for me, here on my own.

The nights have been as black as pitch, and secretly cover the wandering
scorpions in my room. The owls screech and call, and no doubt the
little bat that lost
itself in my room one night is – somewhere. The tiny field mouse races
across from the house, out to its house in the meadow, and probably, its family.
The ants are still working away, busy, busy – in all this time of watching
them I still cannot work out what they are doing.

Rain has cooled and cleansed everything.

And the moon speaks, with all, of continuance, flow, living.

Alone
in the mountains, Prato Verde, Tuscany.

The earth no doubt assists
The weary who lie down on it
But who in turn will help the earth?
Where will it lay itself to rest?

From Invisible Threads by Yevgeny Yevtushenko,
Published by The Macmillan Company of Australia Pty. Ltd. l98l.

Each day I chew up my life into little pieces,
and spit it out as nothing.

There is in all human beings a secret, personal life – untouched,
protected, won from communal life. It is this sensitive life which
my art is created to
feed and sustain. Thus my art is truly functional.

Cecil Collins –
From The Prints of Cecil Collins by Richard Morphet,
Published by the Tate Gallery, 1981.

While the heart weeps at what it has lost,
The spirit laughs at what it has found.

Arab Proverb

I have shrunk beyond the smallest atom
Expanded further than the last star
All that is left of Rumi is only
This garden laughing with fruit.